Waking Nightmare
by WonWon101
Summary: A short story set in the Last Of Us. Doesn't include any characters in the game. (Don't want to spoil anything)


I'm crying. That's what I realise first. I can feel the warm tears trickling down my cheeks. Then the irritation. Thousands of insects attack at every millimetre of my skin. Every fibre of my being feels weak and cold. I want to reel at the stench of the city. When vision returns, I find myself wandering about some sort of alleyway. It's night time. Moonlight reflected from the puddles below stings my eyes.

I walk in pained, jagged movements, scuffing my shoes against the ground. Affected by the harshness of the light, my body seeks a more shaded area. This is different. It seems I have begun sleepwalking again. I used to do that...Sometime I can't remember.

Rats scurry in my wake as I trod through rubbish bags, dog shit, vomit and other unseen atrocities. My breath exhales clouds of smoke that dissipate instantaneously. Pipes attached to the spiderweb-cracked brickwork form droplets of water that collect at the edge of the alleyway. The ventilation shafts don't blow any hot air for comfort.

I can't rid myself of the burning sensation in my skin. No matter how much I scratch my body.

The world is a horrible headache. I am caught in this dream, staggering aimlessly from one wall to the next. It's not as though this place is difficult to navigate, but my body won't comply with my actions. Each movement is a fall. I am constantly off balance, catching myself with the next provoked step. It feels wrong and stupid, almost too stupid. Somewhere in the depths of my mind there is a powerful knowledge. Somewhere I know what has happened before. And what is to come.

A great fear overcomes me, as though the air before me is a deadly poison. A cry omits itself; raspy and pained, reverberating against the bare brick walls. I feel as though my insides are imploding, that my heart will erupt from my chest. All I want to do is crumple on the ground. The cold, wet sheen of the pave stone invites my blazing head. It takes me a while to focus on the graffiti in front of me. It reads, "The end is very fucking nigh", slapped onto the surface with a careless brush or hand. The lettering has dried recently, and reeks of something familiar.

What does that mean? Why would someone choose to write that on the wall? Before I have time to process my thoughts my body shifts again, finding rest at the face of the entrance. I am watching a first person movie. A single street lamp illuminates the entrance in soft light, flickering every few seconds. Beyond that, complete darkness. It seems quiet.

A sudden impulse overcomes me, as I sprint for the entrance, shoes slapping, lungs burning, heart pounding. A wild shriek erupts from within, echoing against the walls. Something is definitely fucking wrong.

With frightening speed I reach the end in mere seconds, catching a glimpse of a leg disappearing around the corner. Am I chasing someone? I turn the corner at pace. My shoes find no traction on the slippery surface, which sends me crashing down in a heap on the sidewalk.

Hopefully I'll stay down. Whatever this is, I don't want any part in it.

But with an agonizing cry, my body launches from the pavement, fueled by the aggravation of my fall. For the first time I see the silhouette of my supposed target. A young girl, no more than six years old, running for her life. Bare legs, neat shoes, flowery dress, blonde hair done up in a bun. I can see that I'll catch her easily; my fatigued muscles are already fired up for the final charge.

Run, I scream, Get away!

But all that comes out is an alien roar.

She glances back at me, her eyes widening in horror, tears streaming, face flushed full, arms swinging wildly. I can see in her expression the realisation of her fate. She isn't going to make it. But still she continues, as most people would, in the hope that despite the odds she has a possibility of escape; in the hope that a higher power is looking out for her.

In her eyes I see her own vision of accumulated fear, her own short-lived life replaying itself over and over again, as a computer does reading lines of code. Maybe death is just that: maybe our conscience remains entrapped in a dream, analysing ourselves as many of us think a higher power would. Or maybe whatever state I'm in is the afterlife. In death, maybe I carry this body of boils, sores, cuts, imploding organs, rotting skin, searing headaches, catching those who have their own impending fate. Maybe.

I'm almost upon her when she reaches the end of the street. My arms are outstretched before me, grappling her dress, tearing at it with great force. She looses her balance and we tumble in a heap onto the tarmac road. I can't stop this. I just can't. My body is in control from some other force. She's screaming, trying to push me away with her delicate little hands and feet. But my body weight is too heavy for her to repel, and eventually I manage to bat her arms away from me. I pound at her face, chest, head and arms with my fists, each blow delivered with full bone-crunching force. Before she passes out, she manages to let out a feeble "help".

Even when I know she's well and truly gone, I continue to hit her. Even when I loose all feeling in my arms, when my knuckles and fingers are bloodied and broken. Somewhere inside me is an unsettling, unmitigated, inhuman anger. There is a host, a second conscience, who has taken me away from control over my body. They will probably destroy me, and I will be no more. And then I remember.

September 23rd 2013. September 23rd 2013: the night it came. November 12th 2014: the day I was bit. November 13th 2014: the night I turned.

I'm infected.

I've become the very monster feared by all mankind.


End file.
